


S3MXT: A Shassie Love Story (Vol. 1) - Side A

by grabthefish



Series: S3MXT: A Shassie Love Story [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: A Bad Day Of Bomb Threats, A Long Day Of Not Blowing Up, A Plan To Have A Plan, Accidental Discoveries, Adventure Seeking, Angst, Bad Case, Bad Clothes, Barely Hidden Attraction, Betrayal, Bitchiest Banana, Cold Comments, Curious Contemplation, Daredevil Competition, Deflection Nation, Double Dog Dare, Drinking, Explosive chemistry, Feeeeeeelings, Finding Foster, First Date Or Worst Date?, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Full Body Press, Giving Up On Dreams Of The Past, High School Reunion, Honesty is the best policy, Humor, If Life Sucks At Least Work Is Good, Important decisions, Introspection, Learning About Their Future Lovers, M/M, Mama Drama, Man(child) Handling, Maybe Henry Has It Right, McNab Goes Splat, Mental Health Help, Mistaken Identity, Mixtape, No Cookie For Carlton, No Corpse No Case, No Help From My Friends, Nosy Partner, Pissed Juliet, Proving Preconceived Notions Wrong, Psych - Freeform, Real Life Daredevil Action, Resenting A Dinosaur, Romance, Season 3, Shassie, So much drinking, Stealing Glory, Stealing Headlines, The Conscience Speaks, The Dead Clown Story, The Need To Touch, The Things Nearly Dying Can Teach You, The Ways Our Parents Fuck Us Up, To Kiss or To Shoot?, Ugly Dress On A Pretty Lady, Uncomfortable Answers, Uncomfortable Questions, Well That Changes Everything, Why We Are The Way We Are, dancing the night away, learning about themselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabthefish/pseuds/grabthefish
Summary: S3MXT: Season 3 Mixtape - set to an 80's soundtrack; the story behind the story, all while keeping as canonical as possible.When a hallway interaction gets more heated than usual, Shawn & Carlton find themselves questioning everything they know & learning to cope. The two are stuck with their minds on each other & even reunions, daredevils, & bomb-scares can't stop them from coming to conclusions about themselves that they never would have imagined. Romance begins to build when they both realize they need to work through their past crap to learn to take what they want. After a betrayal & some soul-searching about why he sucks at relationships, Shawn figures out he's enamored with Lassie. After Lassie has a bad day & a lot of Scotch, he comes up with a plan to change things for what he hopes is the better.Track List:1. Dancing In The Dark/I Won't Back Down - 3.01 Ghosts2. Don't You (Forget About Me) - 3.02 Murder? ...Anyone? ...Anyone? ...Bueller?3. Feel It Again - 3.03 Daredevils!4. Here I Go Again - 3.04 The Greatest Adventure In The History Of Basic Cable5. You Give Love A Bad Name - 3.05 Disco Didn't Die. It Was Murdered!





	1. Dancing In The Dark/I Won't Back Down

**Author's Note:**

> A very special thanks goes out to my amazing and patient editor, redwolffclaw. Without her, this would be full of unnecessary commas and words that exist only in my imagination.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place directly after season 3 episode 1: Ghosts  
> ** The accompanying songs are Dancing In the Dark by Bruce Springsteen & I Won’t Back Down by Tom Petty
> 
> Shawn corners Carlton after his talk with Madeleine and both men unwittingly share what they've learned about themselves, resulting in a more physical than usual hallway encounter at the precinct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

Shawn was gobsmacked, a torrent of thoughts racing through his mind as he followed his mother out of the office and in to the hall, lifting his head and waving at his waiting father as he passed him by. The information his mother had gifted him with unnerved him, and he wasn't sure whether he wished he had known it sooner or not. It changed  _everything_ , and though Henry was still a bastard for all he'd put his son through, Shawn thought that maybe he might owe his father an apology.

It didn't mean he was getting one, though. It just meant that maybe Shawn's responses to him throughout the years hadn't been fully informed. That maybe there was a little extra animosity where there shouldn't be.

But the precinct wasn't the place to get sensitive about it, so as he watched Madeleine greet her ex, he did his best to wipe the emotion off his face. Looking towards the bullpen in hopes of seeing someone who would cheer him up, he quickly spotted his partner in crime-solving standing next to his favorite blonde detective. Gus just looked ready to be interrupted, so, happy for the distraction and ready to wreck his pal's attempt to flirt, Shawn sauntered over.

"G-bro! Didn't know you were still kicking around!" he pounced, punching his best friend in the arm. "We get the check from Vick yet, or are we still waiting?"

Gus blinked in response, confused and hardly showing it at all. Shawn was a little proud of him, learning to roll with Shawn's punches - quite literally, in this case.

"Vick didn't hire us on this case, Shawn. There was no case. You made it up."

Shawn opened his mouth to argue, but Gus wasn't finished.

"And then you got caught. And  _then_ you worked some voodoo magic or something."

"What -" Juliet started, bewildered by the statement.

"Thank you for the raise, by the way," Gus continued.

"So still waiting to get paid then."

His friends just stared incredulously, and Shawn smiled back, amused by their mild annoyance.

As much fun as it was messing with them - and messing with them was giant-sized barrels of amusement most days - it wasn't nearly as enjoyable as bugging Lassie, the man's uptight demeanor far more entertaining to screw with. He loved it when the detective scowled at him, the look always sending chills up his spine, and the distinct lack of antagonized-detective induced tinglies made him wonder where Lassiter had run off to, the detective having been there when Shawn had ambled in that afternoon. Looking around, his eyes scanned over the many familiar faces of the bullpen, and he finally noticed his very favorite Lassiepants on his way back from the bathroom, grinning as his target was finally acquired. Even better than his imminent arrival, Lassie looked in a  _mood_ , the usually meticulous man not even bothering to notice the trail of toilet paper attached to the heel of his shoe, which almost guaranteed Shawn would be able to get his goat. Lost in thought, Lassiter's head snapped up when he heard Shawn's voice, a not-quite glower crossing his face as he saw who was hovering at his work space.

"Lassie!" Shawn called out, attempting to get the man's attention. "Looking sexy as usual!"

With a pallor paler than usual, Lassiter scowled as he walked towards them, re-buttoning the sleeves of his shirt. Shawn noted the man's complexion instantly and hoped he wasn't getting sick. Though he enjoyed irritating Lassie and the reactions he received when he did, he never  _actually_  wanted anything bad to happen to him, and sick was definitely considered a thing of bad.

Also, picking on Lassie when he was sick was like shooting fish in a barrel or playing Mario Kart against Gus - fun, but also a cheap and easy win.

"Spencer. Guster. What are you doing here? We don't have a case for you," the cop said, looking at them with a snarl. "Hopefully ever again."

Ahh, there they were. The first tingles of the day.  _Thank you, Mr. Head Detective._

"Carlton -" O'Hara admonished, but the Shawn interjected, his smile deflecting the unwarranted animosity with ease.

"No, Jules, it's okay. I know that's how Lassie says he loves me."

"I don't  _love_  you, Spencer," Lassiter scoffed, his tone Victor Fries-post-mutation cold as he glared at the younger man. "You probably don't even know what love is."

Shawn froze, the comment cutting deeper than he was willing to let on.

An awkward silence festered in the air. After a moment, Gus broke it, shifting uncomfortably as he confronted the detective - a move that both took Shawn by surprise and warmed his heart. Gus wasn't usually one to stand up to people, but he knew Shawn well enough to read the signs and had probably realized that his talk with his mom had been heavy. So, it was nice to see he was willing to act as an emotional buffer for his buddy. Shawn knew he kept Gus around for good reason, and this was just proof it was for more than his big sexy brain and leniency with his credit card bills.

"That was uncalled for, don't you think?"

The cop opened his mouth to - well, Shawn wasn't sure  _what_  Lassie was going to say because he interrupted before the man got the chance.

"Well, I mean… he's not wrong," he said, attempting to shrug it off. The verbal swipe made him wonder what bug had crawled up Lassie's butt today, the cop acting more gruff than usual. It wasn't that Lassiter never reacted this way, but it usually took a lot more than a greeting to get him going; this time, he had skipped all the playful banter and cut right to the quick. It kind of smarted. "Way to go, buddy! Two for two - it's your big day!"

Earning himself another glower, he thwacked the detective on the shoulder. Juliet shot him a simpering smile, as if it could buffer Lassiter's mood, and while he knew it hadn't been her intent, Shawn suddenly felt a little pathetic. He didn't want to be pitied for any reason, let alone because of what Lassie thought of him. If he had his way, that would be the last time she ever looked at him like that.

"I'm sure that's not true, Shawn," she said as she turned toward her partner with a glare, clearly displeased with Lassiter's rude response. "Carlton's just cranky today and taking it out on you for  _absolutely no reason._ He just finished his department mandated psych eval-"

"Unnecessary sharing of information, O'Hara," the Head Detective interrupted sternly, his hand up like it's presence would stop her.

Shawn just laughed, things starting to make sense. Of course! Lassie had seen Madeleine today! Probably right before Shawn had, as a matter of fact, and Shawn knew from experience that her deep and casual probing of his psyche could explain everything, her way of getting a person to open up ridiculously disarming.

"Guess that means we both had a good talk with dear ol' mumsy today, hey?" he said, his eyes twinkling in delight at accidentally stumbling across the perfect target to poke at. Two could play this game, and if it was a game of asshole one-upsmanship, Shawn was guaranteed to win.

Lassie looked at the psychic flatly, his lips pressed tight in a grim refusal to answer, the fact that he was discomfited obvious. Instead –

"What did she tell  _you_?"

"Carlton!" Juliet almost squeaked in surprise, shocked to her feet from her spot against her desk. "That is unbelievably inappropriate!" 

" _He_  started it. And he's  _never_  appropriate; what do you care?"

Juliet floundered for an answer while Gus just stared. Shawn said nothing, looking at the detective curiously and wondering what was going through that big-brained head of his. Because, as un-fun as it might be, he was willing to play along if it meant he could find out. He was always willing to bend over backwards for some insight into Lassie's brain. He'd bend over even further for some insight into Lassie's clothes, too, but that was neither here nor there.

"So, Spencer. What'd dear ol' mumsy tell you?" Lassie asked, mocking.

Shawn sighed, staring straight into the detective's piercing blue eyes.

 _Well, hell. If that's just not the million dollar question,_  he thought.  _Let's just make it uncomfortable for everybody, why not?_

He paused a beat, then –

"That everything I ever thought I knew about love was a lie," he replied, as casually as he could.

As if it were something he admitted every day.

As if it weren't eating him alive inside.

Carlton started, the bare honesty of the statement unbalancing him, a look of shock quickly passing over his fine Irish features.

"Why, what'd she tell you, Carly?" Shawn asked, slinging the question back at him in return, knowing he was unlikely to answer but that it would rankle him nonetheless.

The cop looked at him, oblivious to the query, his mind seemingly miles away.

Well, that was surprising.

But, not thinking too hard about it, Shawn poked him in the chest to draw him out of his reverie, his digit lingering on the detective's sternum.

"Hellooo… Earth to Carly! What'd Mom tell you?"

Lassiter's eyes cleared. He looked at Shawn's finger and snarled.

Ahh, there he was. Detective Dour, back to being snappish and cold.

"None of your business, Spencer. Why don't you just go home? Nobody needs you here."

"Aww, but Lassie," Shawn pouted, slinging his arm around Juliet's shoulders for effect. "Jules and I were just catching up!"

"No, we weren't. I was talking to Gus," she disagreed, shrugging him off and reclaiming her slouch.

"Ehh. I've heard it both wa-"

"Pretty sure you didn't," she interrupted, shaking her head at his grin and looking like she wondered how Gus put up with this on a daily basis.

Shawn just ignored her, dropping his arms and leaning in toward Lassiter, his head nearly on the man's shoulder as he tilted his body.

"Doesn't matter. Not important. Because now that  _you're_  here, you can provide cheap thrills for me, can't you, Carly?"

Carlton glowered again, the name rankling him even more than 'Lassie' did, and Shawn wondered if the look would be as perpetual as it was if the cop really knew what it did to him. 

"Come on, Lassie-so-sassy-with-the-nice-assy," he prodded, taking delight in the other man's discomfort, a plethora of irritating nicknames under his belt just ready to be unleashed on the sort-of suspecting man. "What'd my mama bear tell you?"

Gus snickered at the typical Shawnian response, and for it, Lassiter shot him a look of disdain. Juliet joined in with a giggle, which earned her a matching glare, hers a little darker for being the one to get Lassie into this mess. Shawn full-on belly laughed, knowing it would piss Lassie off the most, and the look he earned was one dripping with ire, almost as if Lassie thought he was the man most eligible to win the award for Most Annoying Person on the Planet™. Which he probably was and was a trophy that would look wicked cool on his desk at the office, were it a real thing.

Shawn smiled back, as innocently as he could.

Downright angelically, even.

"I don't need this," the cop said, turning away from Shawn's false virtue, clearly frustrated and incapable of dealing with it. "I have work to do."

Sly dog that he was - and one not willing to give up his prize bone now he'd found it - Shawn turned with the detective, lassoing Lassiter's arm with his as they walked side by side, leaving Gus and Juliet behind. "No, really. Tell me about my mommy. Did she give you a dream diary?" he pestered. "Are you supposed to try to figure out why you want to marry your gun?"

Lassiter swatted him away, to no avail.

"Spencer, get your meat-hooks off of me!" he said, taking a futile step aside. Shawn stepped with him, not allowing the movement to dissuade him. "For your information,  _no_ , she did not give me a dream diary," Lassiter continued, taking a steadying breath, as if realizing he was being sucked into Spencer's ploy but was unable to stop himself. "Nor do I want to marry my gun!"

Shawn chuckled, amused at Lassie's raised hackles.

Oh, this  _was_  fun.

"Yuh-huh. So, what  _did_  she say, then?"

"I am  ** _not_**  having this conversation with you," the cop insisted as his eyes narrowed, proof of his irritation. "Go away."

Shawn ignored him, soaking the reaction up like a sponge.

"Sounds like you are to me, Lassiepants. C'mon, you can tell me. It'll be our little secret. What's got my favorite detective wound up tighter than a girdle on a Baptist minister's wife at an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast?" he asked, strolling along beside Lassiter, a little more than a little too close. "Did you discover your deep-seated desire to kiss boys or -"

And that was when Shawn found his arm gripped tight, his feet flying furiously beneath him as he was dragged unceremoniously through the nearest door, pushed down a darkened hallway, and shoved up against a wall, Lassie hissing at him to please,  _for once_ , shut his friggin' mouth.

_Huh._

It seemed he had hit a nerve.

* * *

 

Lassiter was at a loss for words.

In nearly two decades on the force, he had dealt with all sorts of irritants, but nothing and no one had ever managed to press his buttons as badly as the pest in front of him. Not even that one handsy drunk who'd literally tried pressing every button on Lassiter's button-down as he'd pulled him out of the street and put him in cuffs. It was almost like Spencer was a natural at it, which frustrated Carlton even further. He wished he knew what horrible thing he'd done in life to deserve being plagued by the existence of Shawn Spencer, the man a constant thorn in his side and one he couldn't seem to rid himself of. But outside of murdering orphaned children - a thing he'd never do - he had no idea what action would have resulted in his deserving  _this_.

If Carlton believed in curses, he would have thought he'd pissed off a witch or something.

The man was just always there, it seemed. Day or night, and usually exactly the moments Carlton didn't want him to be. It was already bad enough the man had made a point of befriending half the precinct, regularly shoehorning his way into cases he had no right even knowing about, but now the little bastard had decided to dig into the detective's personal life as well, which simply could not stand. He was already in Carlton's head too much these days; he wasn't about to be given an All Access Pass. No matter what the 'psychic' said or how he goaded him, there was no way in  _hell_ Carlton was going to discuss his sexual proclivities with the perceptive son of a bitch; not when he could barely discuss it with the man's mother in the first place – and she was a woman he respected, with an opinion he actually valued.

Madeleine had hit the nail on the head in their sessions when she'd suggested Carlton's sexuality was something he had deeply repressed. And he had, growing up in a Catholic household, knowing he was and being castigated for being different, then coming home one day when he was fourteen to find his mother declaring herself a raging lesbian. The hypocrisy was astounding, and he hadn't known how to wrap his head around it, shoving the feelings he had deep down inside to deal or not deal with another day. If he had his way, that's exactly where it would stay – buried in the darkest recesses of his mind, locked in chains, the key thrown away.

Because the last thing he needed was this man-child armed with  _more_  ammo to aggravate him with.

"Lassie, it's okay," Spencer said, eyes sparkling mischievously. "We all know you want to kiss boys; it's obvious, the way you look at me."

He grinned, arching his eyebrow in what Carlton assumed to be a mocking manner.

"I said shut the hell up, Spencer," the detective growled, his fists clenched in frustration.

_How does that little shit always seem to know..._

"Or what, Lassie?" the shorter man smirked, his back against the wall and arms at his side, body language submissive though his words were anything but. "You'll shoot? Isn't that what you did to get the evaluation in the first place? Didn't you almost shoot a cat?"

"How do you know- no, nevermind," Lassiter spat, deciding he didn't want to know - that it wasn't important. "It doesn't matter that I want to kiss boys, as you so eloquently put it. Or if I shot at a cat. It doesn't even matter if I dress up like Bozo the clown on Tuesday afternoons!" His jaw clenched in anger and he shoved a pointed finger in the fake psychic's face. "Just stay out of my business and keep me out of your shenanigans. Hell, just keep out of the precinct altogether, won't you? Do a guy a favor for once."

Spencer's grin faltered, just a little. It was not the reaction Carlton expected.

"You want to kiss boys?" he asked, his voice sounding almost…  _hopeful_?

"Really, Spencer?" Lassiter asked through gritted teeth. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"You want to kiss boys?" Spencer repeated, ignoring Carlton's simmering rage.

"That's what you got out of this? I'm tempted to shoot you and you wanna know -"

"If that means you're as likely to kiss me as you are to leave me with a bullet wound," Spencer grinned salaciously, reaching out to grab the collar of the senior detective's pristine white shirt.

The cop stared for a moment, his brain whirring in disbelief as he attempted to register the words just spoken. The thought clicked -  _Spencer wants me to kiss him_  - and without even realizing he was doing it, he grabbed at the man's hands, pulling them away. But Spencer grabbed back - another unexpected reaction – threatening to turn their attack on each other into a slap fight before Carlton overpowered him and slammed the psychic's wrists into the wall behind the man's head.

Carlton felt his blood boil and groaned inwardly, questioning why this little prick always found the quickest and easiest way under his skin, cursing the fact that he let such personal information slip in the first place. His defenses were obviously still lowered from his earlier meeting with Madeleine. He should have known better than to approach his desk and the monster standing near it at all.

"I am  _always_  more likely to shoot you than kiss you, Spencer," he replied, hoping his gaze was boring a hole in Spencer's head. Instead, it looked like it was turning the man on and Carlton didn't know how he was supposed to deal with that.

Spencer stopped for a moment, a faint blush on his cheeks.

He swallowed.

"I double dog dare you."

A thick silence hung in the air, soupy and strangling. Carlton blinked, reacting the only way he knew how, instinct overpowering any other thought he might have had.

"To shoot you, Spencer? Always happy to oblige."

"No," the younger man responded, his tongue ghosting over his lips.

Carlton suppressed an unanticipated shudder, the sight doing things to him that he didn't want.

"Kiss you?" he said, confused and a flustered and trying not to show either.

Shawn nodded.

"Why the hell would I kiss a flirt like you, Spencer?"

The psychic batted his eyelashes playfully, but the question was valid. Carlton wanted to -  _had_  wanted to for quite some time, the desire to pin Spencer down and take what he needed from the man increasing with every smart remark, sometimes only because he wanted to shut him up - but his rational mind railed against it. He'd been closeted his whole life; he wasn't about to change that now and chance fucking everything up for a charlatan like Spencer. 

"Because I make you feel special, Lassie. Duh."

Snarling, Carlton leaned in, his face pressed next to Spencer's ear.

" _My ex_  made me feel special.  _Lucinda_  made me feel special.  _You_  make me feel like a fool, you fucking fraud."

And it was true. Spencer did. But he also made Carlton feel things he hadn't tapped into in a very long time. Things he found himself constantly pushing aside, back down into that deep dark pit he put all his unwanted feelings in.

"You haven't let me make you feel anything yet, Lassie," Spencer teased lecherously, brushing off the insult as if it were water off a duck's back. "C'mon, Lassifrass. You won't know you don't like it if you don't try it at least  _once,_ " he purred, the last of his words murmured against the tender flesh of Carlton's jaw. "I guarantee I'll make you tingle if you just give me the chance. My lips  _are_  magically delicious after all." 

The detective felt a jolt in his groin, his knees threatening to buckle as his sometimes-colleague's lips brushed against the skin of his throat.

 _What am I doing?_ he thought, finally noticing how he had Spencer pinned down. How his body pressed against the psychic's shorter, stockier build. How their fingers laced together without his meaning for them to.  _This is wrong._

His lips were inches from the other man's own.

_So wrong._

He could feel his pulse pounding; knew the other man felt it, too.

_I shouldn't be doing this._

"Are you chicken, Lassie?" Spencer mumbled, the vibration of his voice causing the cop's skin to flush. "Do you wann-"

It was nothing to bridge the gap between them.

All sense of reason was lost as their mouths sealed together, their tongues battling for dominance in a bruising wet heat, the loud protestations of Carlton's conscience quickly faded into nothingness as Spencer's body writhed against his like he was determined to touch as much of him as he could with his hands still pinned above his head. Carlton felt the world melt away, nothing left but the feel of Spencer's mouth on his, the psychic biting at Carlton's lower lip, tongue darting out to lick where he had nipped. A ball of pure feeling, Carlton moaned and responded in kind. As the blood surged straight to his groin, his hand fell to grasp the brunette by the back of his head and he heard the man - felt the man - moan into his mouth.

_Wrong wrong wrong. But, God - it feels so right._

The thought a shock to the system, they broke from each other, struggling to catch their breaths.

Heart pounding in his chest, Carlton stepped back, more turned on than he'd ever remembered being.

Spencer leaned against the wall before him, somehow seeming more at ease than Lassiter had ever seen him before, skin flushed, eyes bright, and mouth looking just  _promiscuous_.

"Hey, no touching the hair," the psychic said, a slow, languid smile creeping across his face. He ran his hand along the nape of his neck, looking at the detective with lust in his eyes. Carlton froze, the gravity of what they'd just done hitting him like a runaway freight train.

He had kissed Spencer.

He had kissed Spencer while he was at  _work_.

 And he had  _liked_  it.

 _Sweet Lady_   _Justice_ , he thought. _What did I just do?_

 


	2. Don't You (Forget About Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place at the end of season 3 episode 2: Murder?... Anyone?... Anyone?... Bueller?  
> ** The accompanying song is Don't You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds
> 
> Shawn dances the night away at his reunion after Lassie takes the bad guys back for booking, completely unable to shake the dapper detective from his mind. At the precinct, Carlton contemplates his growing attraction to the 'psychic' pest and how he happens to be absolutely everywhere he turns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

 

* * *

 

Out of all the things she could have thrown onto her fabulous figure, Shawn couldn't believe Juliet had shown up to his high school reunion in that god-awful barbie doll pink reject prom dress.

"Thanks again for the help, Jules!" he shouted over the music as he got into the groove, choosing to ignore the fashion fail and focus on the fact that she'd arrived to assist with absolutely no notice instead. Her ugly dress aside, he was more grateful than he had words for and reminded himself to express that gratitude before night's end. A thank you not really enough, maybe he'd get her a case-cracked cookie to celebrate as well. "Lassie never wants to play nice unless he gets all the credit!"

"Yeah, what was his deal tonight?" she called back, both twisting and shouting, her long blonde hair whipping behind her as she did. "I didn't expect to see him here on his night off!"

"Me neither!" Gus agreed, bopping along with dance moves that should have been left in the nineties.

The evening having been what it had, Shawn stifled his laugh, knowing it was better to save his mockery for later than to take the mickey out of his friend now. He'd built Gus up with his speech about greatness; it wasn't the time to tear him back down. There would be so many future opportunities to rib him over the return to his awkward teen swagger, after all. He could wait.

Stopping as the song ended and turned into the ' _Cadillac Ranch_ ', Shawn asked nobody in particular - 

"I dunno. Weird night for him, having to arrest his own date. Did anybody see him take off?"

Lassie had disappeared quite quickly after Shawn's speech, and the psychic found it a little disheartening. He'd been hoping the Head Detective would pass on being the booking officer, it being his official day off and all. Hoping that he might instead have some interest in staying to play with his pals. Hoping he might stay to play with Shawn.

Wishful thinking.

Idiot boy.

Shifting positions, Juliet and Gus also paused; Jules effortlessly, Gus not so much - the pharmaceutical rep stumbling as he offered an answer Shawn really didn't want to hear.

"I think I saw him leave when they took Howie and Eileen back to the station." 

"Yeah, he said he wanted to be there when they book them. It's not often Carlton volunteers for paperwork," Juliet said, kicking her legs, first heel then toe, showing off skills Shawn hadn't seen since their American Duos debacle. He'd almost forgotten how graceful she was; a skill neither he nor Gus could ever hope to achieve.

Well, maybe Gus could, but only while wearing tap shoes.

"You think he's mad at you?"

"He's always mad at Shawn," Gus laughed, looking at Juliet's feet to guide him.

Trying to fake rhythm to the vintage country bop tougher than it had at first seemed, it was obvious Gus had no idea what he was doing, line dancing very clearly not in his wheelhouse. Shawn thought it sure was fun to watch him try, though.

"He is not!" he protested, pouting as he rubbed his fingers against the fine hairs at the nape of his neck.

He paused again, long enough to pretend to consider.

"Well... maybe on days that end in 'y'."

Unfortunately, the statement was true. Especially these days, where if Shawn managed to corner the man, all he got was a bitchy detective and an order to go away.

Feigning innocence, he asked what it was he possibly could have done to scare Lassie away, fully aware of what the answer was. But it was far more fun playing dumb. And besides,  _they_  didn't know - couldn't know about the kiss and how he'd dared Lassie to and how he'd become so much more awkward around Shawn because  _he_  had made the first move and there was no denying it - and he couldn't wait to hear the answer his pals came up with, hoping at least one of them got creative.

"Well… you did interrupt his date with a murder investigation," Juliet said plainly, heels clicking together in tandem with the rest of the graduating class of 1995.

"That's not my fault!" Shawn squawked, in denial. "When murder is afoot we must run and catch it!"

His friends looked at each other and shook their heads, not even bothering to hide their silent laughter.

"So, let me get this straight…" Gus started, at which Shawn chuckled.

There was  _nothing_  straight about the situation. Lassie might not be gay, but the way he had kissed Shawn at the precinct was proof there was an attraction there. That made the whole thing bi, at  _least_.

"You think Lassiter was cool with you interrupting his date?" 

Shawn smirked, recalling the ridiculous series of events that had occurred over the course of the evening. Not only were they ridiculous, but they were incredibly enlightening events and had informed him of things he hadn't been entirely sure of before.

He'd always kind of suspected. But now? Now he knew them without a shadow of a doubt.

"Pretty sure he was more okay with it than he let on." 

Juliet raised a perfectly sculpted yet questioning eyebrow.

"What makes you say that?"

 _Oh, just the way I caught Lassie staring at my mouth when I told him we had a murder to solve._   _Or the fake smile on his face as he said it was the best date he'd been on in a while._

He smiled knowingly.

_How 'bout the way he leaned in closer than he needed to when he asked me about where the sabre-toothed dead guy was?_

Gus stepped in, unconsciously saving Shawn from his own mouth, about to accidentally betray a confidence he shouldn't.

"Must be that he knows Lassiter would never willingly date a fraud, no matter how desperate he is."

Shawn deflated at the words, the truth of them piercing.

_...which is why I should forget about my kiss with Lassie altogether._

"You know that's right," Shawn agreed, voice small as the thought brought him crashing down.

It was obvious he had to stop obsessing over his lip-lock with Lassiter. As obvious as two plus two equalling four or the fact that Bret Hart had been screwed out of his title in Montreal in '97. He knew it wasn't healthy, was perhaps the unhealthiest obsession he'd ever had, and based on the fact that Lassie hadn't brought it up since, it was hard to believe it would ever happen again. But it had become the most prevalent thought in his head - a thought with the potential to take over his life if he let it - and he found himself thinking of the way the cop's mouth pressed against his own with almost every waking minute (and some of his non-waking ones), his eidetic memory flashing it before him in technicolor with every chance it got.

It was just...

Lassie had always been vocal in his opinion of Shawn's 'abilities'. 

 _Extremely_  vocal, in fact; the cop taking every opportunity he could to castigate him over his claim.

Yet, for reasons unknown, he had sucked face with the psychic anyhow.

It made Shawn think and, in the moment he took between steps to do so, he recalled what his father had said - that what defined him was the choice he made in the moment - and how it could apply just as well to Snarly Carly as it could to Juliet or Abigail. Maybe even more so, neither fine female making his heart pitter-patter like it had after his and Lassie's round of tonsil-hockey.

Neither fine female currently being featured in his nocturnal emissions.

So what choice did he want to make? Where did Shawn want his life to go?

As much as he had once wished otherwise, Juliet had made it clear that she wasn't ready to go beyond flirting at this point. If ever, which almost made him feel bad for how hard he'd tried. Definitely made him feel bad about what he'd done at the end of the Tankana case, pushing against her boundaries like that.

When he'd first met her, Shawn had hoped that their chemistry would ignite. Had been sure it would. But Jules seemed afraid to start something, so instead, it fizzled where there should have been flames. He had a feeling that they could share something special if ever they had the chance, knew that as well as he knew the back of his own hand, but he just couldn't see himself waiting for her forever if she was never going to be sure. And that was okay. She was allowed her feelings and even if she wasn't going to share, he wasn't going to begrudge her them. They were valid, and that was cool. He liked Jules regardless of how she felt about him. But uncertainty was something he had never learned to deal with well, the idea feeling like a threat to his survival. In his opinion, if you didn't know, you should try, action guaranteeing your answer and freeing you from the hell that was limbo. She wasn't willing, and that proved that deep down, they weren't as compatible as Shawn has hoped they'd be.

Speaking of waiting around forever...

Shawn had also once thought he would love the chance at a relationship with Abigail. Abigail Lytar - his high school crush. The crush of all crushes. Standing before him looking just as good as she had back then. Maybe even better, if that was at all possible. But this time it was he who was afraid - afraid that she might never be more than a fantasy, his own manic pixie dream girl. He hated that term, hated the fact that it was possible he was projecting his adolescent self onto her. Hated more that he would never find out without the risk of someone getting hurt.

It was just like how they say you should never meet your idols in case they disappoint you.

Not that Abby would disappoint, of course. That was Shawn's role, after all.

Back then, though, it had seemed like because he had wanted it so badly - wanted something  _normal_ so badly - it had been destined to fail. Everything he did at that age was a failure, or at least that's what Henry had led him to believe. It was the tip of the iceberg regarding his issues with his father, but it was one that affected him most, lingering even to this day. Which made him think - if his non-relationship with Abigail had failed then, what hope did an  _actual_  relationship have for success now? His thirty-one year-old self was no less fearful of the situation than his seventeen year-old self had been. And adult life meant the stakes had been raised even higher, didn't it?

Maybe it was fate.

She had joked about waiting another ten years to see each other, after all. That had to mean something, his subconscious had screamed, honing in on her hesitance.

Who knew what kind of trouble he could get up to in that time? Or how many missed moments could occur if he chose to wait for her like he had made her wait for him?

Ten years or forever didn't matter when both felt like torture.

Shawn had spied Juliet in the crowd after his romantic movie-moment kiss with Abby, the light catching her blonde hair as he pulled away from his long-awaited lip-lock. But, as sweet as the sight of the fine female detective was, it was really Lassiter he had been looking for.

 _Maybe Lassie had been a moment,_  he mused, his skin flushing at the thought.

_Maybe there could be another..._

"Think he tried to tell his date the dead clown story?" Shawn asked out of the blue, an attempt to revive the flagging conversation.

He still hadn't heard the tale but knew Lassie had scared away more than one date with a detailed description of it and it made him wonder if it had been intentional. Knowing Lassie, it could go either way. Almost overjoyed when the song changed to Tears For Fears (music guaranteed to soothe his wounded soul), Shawn was curious as to whether the man's partner could bring him any levity. But Juliet just shrugged, her hair in her face as she danced hiding her bemused expression.

"Hey, what the hell ever happened to that clown, anyhow?"

* * *

Carlton couldn't believe his luck.

His horrible fucking luck.

His first date in god knows how long and he stumbled into Spencer because  _of course_  it was his reunion Carlton had been dragged to. How was it even possible? Did the universe have a vendetta against him or something? It was almost unnerving, his inability to escape the man.

He'd been so excited, too, his date a foxy blonde he'd met at a concert – one who'd made the moves on him and not the other way around. It was so rare, he'd thought she was joking at first, and when he realized she wasn't, he'd nearly jumped at the chance to go out with her. Though he'd originally thought it odd she'd suggested he join her at her reunion, the more he thought about it, the less it bothered him. In fact, the more he thought about it, the better it had made him feel about himself. Why  _wouldn't_  an attractive woman want to show him off? A high school reunion was a place to brag about your successes. And seeing as he was a relatively good-looking cop with no kids and what he'd thought was minimal baggage, he was the  _epitome_  of success.

Carlton was starting to understand he was wrong about that baggage part, of course, but that's something his date didn't know about and he hadn't planned on sharing. It wasn't as important as the many other awesome things about him after all. Hell, he wasn't just a cop - he was Head freaking Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department! That occupation was no easy feat to attain, especially at the age he had (youngest ever, and wasn't that just something to brag about?) and if that didn't say success, he didn't know what did.

So what did it matter if he hadn't been completely honest on their first and, keeping up with his current track record, only date? It's not like she was what she'd said she was either.

 _Who the hell has a thirteen-year high school reunion anyway?_ he thought, tapping his pen against his desk to release some of his exasperation, staring at the last of the paperwork needed to process the ex-prom queen and king turned killers.

Of course, Carlton never would have gone to the reunion had he not gone to the concert and  _that_  he could fault his sister for. He hadn't seen Lauren in what seemed like eons and having been feeling low, had taken her up on her offer to spend time together. True, his sister was quite a bit younger than he was, but he had always cherished their connection, her support and belief in him guaranteed. Lauren - Lulu, she'd been, ever since she was little, the moniker sticking when Carlton had tried to teach her how to say her own name and the tot had failed in the most adorable fashion possible - had never steered him wrong, always having his best interests at heart. But that was before learning that what she had in mind for their visit was a Ravi Shankar concert, of course. After that was questionable, the detective wondering how heavily he could weigh the quality time they shared against the inevitable feeling of his ears bleeding out, the 'music' she'd chosen bound to assault his senses.

Alas, at the very last minute, she had texted him with an insane story about big beached whales and big-wig billionaires and a big debacle that she didn't really want to get into along with an apology because she was bailing on him to go film. She begged him to still attend and more importantly, because she knew he wouldn't without her ordering him to, try to have fun. Carlton loved his sister and, willing to forgive her anything, agreed to go and used his free ticket, figuring he could at least score 'best big brother' points by filling her in on what she'd missed. Maybe even get her some video if he was able to avoid security at the Santa Barbara Bowl. If nothing else, the experience would net him a solo evening out, which he hadn't had in a long time and very much deserved.

It was better than another night of swilling scotch and cleaning his guns, anyhow.

Though he'd never admit it publicly, Carlton had accepted the date with Mindy Howland for one other reason - a reason he didn't even want to admit to himself. Simply, he needed to get his mind off of Spencer and the very stupid thing he had done at the station the week prior. He had no idea  _what_  had come over him. Honestly, he didn't want to think of it, and had done everything he could to distract himself from the memory. But the date had proven to be another stupid idea, though there was no possible way he could have known the evening would turn out like it had.

No reason for him to think he'd spend the night stuck with the man causing his cognitive dissonance.

No reason to think Mindy would turn out to be a fraud.

 _What is it with liars and their attraction to the Lassiter clan?_  he wondered.

His father had been the same, or so his mother had told him many a time, in rants far too inappropriate for his adolescent ears to hear. His sister had also had her fair share of fakers and fools, leaving a trail of losers in her wake. As for him - well, he was sure his ex-wife hadn't been honest, staying with him for far longer than she should have simply to spite her old man. It wasn't the greatest of feelings, so being stuck in the situation he currently found himself in created a hair-tearing type of frustration, running from a simmering attraction for one fake straight into the path of another.

Though he'd tried to avoid Spencer since his lapse in judgment, it was to less avail than he would have liked. Things were far easier when the 'psychic' wasn't around, Carlton finding himself less inclined to resign to immaturity and impetuousness; the lack of goading and poking and prodding allowing him to remain his levelheaded self. The levelheaded self who was questioning what on god's green earth caused him to fall for Spencer's taunts and tangle tongues with the man in the first place.

_Jesus Christ._

The whole thing was just silly. Silly and stupid and so out of character for Carlton. Or at least, that's what he kept telling himself. Spencer represented so many things he usually despised, but despite how hard he tried, the cop couldn't stop thinking of him. And, expecting Spencer to spread the news like a human megaphone, he was fairly sure he'd inadvertently lined himself up for further mockery, mockery being one of Spencer's favorite forms of communication. God, what had he been thinking? It wasn't like the liar needed any more help humiliating him, and yet here the Head Detective was, handing him a 'How To' manual!

Shaking his head at the thought, Carlton sighed in defeat, wishing he could leave for a drink and kicking himself in the ass for volunteering to stay. Which he'd only done to get away from Spencer and the awkwardness the evening had brought about. He should have just had McNab book the bastards, the time it took to do the deed making him desperately desire the near-full bottle of Glenlivet Single Malt Scotch he had sitting on the top shelf of his liquor cabinet at home. But he hadn't, and now he was stuck there on his night off, his perfect distraction becoming more of a pain in the ass with every minute that passed.

 _Maybe I've been hitting it a little hard this week,_ he considered, trying to staunch his craving with a sip of water.  _I should get up early and go fishing tomorrow. Get Spencer off my mind, the irritating little prick._

Spencer didn't made it easy though. Nothing was ever easy where he was concerned.

Not even crime-solving. 

Carlton couldn't believe the other man had discovered a murder at his own damn reunion. At this rate it was a wonder Spencer could take a crap without finding a corpse on the john. It was like the man attracted trouble, which was another reason he needed to pull his head out of his ass and set himself straight.

The feelings for the false prophet he found himself thrown by were a fluke.

 _Nothing but a fluke_ , he kept telling himself.  _A bad decision caused by too much adrenaline and far too little sleep and old wounds opened at an inopportune time._

Which he had tried to prove to himself by taking Mindy up on her offer, figuring that his attraction wasn't to Spencer himself but anyone with an inkling of an interest in him, something the psychic obviously had. But so had Mindy, and Carlton glommed on to that, expecting his feelings to easily transfer over. They hadn't. And Spencer had somehow found a way to ruin the first date Lassiter had been on in months, his reason depressingly legitimate to boot.

Not that that was the only reason they hadn't, of course.

(Carlton didn't want to think of that, either.)

Despite his insistence of no corpse, no case, Spencer had persisted. Finding both the body and the bad guys, he had made Carlton feel all the more a fool. But how the hell was he supposed to know that Spencer hadn't been full of it when the fake was such a natural at fucking up his day? He hadn't believed Spencer at first, having thought it was a ploy to pull his attention away from his date and onto the psychic instead, an act entirely up the man's alley. He should have known better, though, and now he was regretting that he hadn't, just like when Spencer had found that fucking dinosaur. Leave it to the giant man-child to prove him wrong when his most insane theories proved correct. It was almost becoming a thing with them, and it frustrated him to no end.

Carlton had always had difficulties taking Shawn seriously. Always. And their unintended intimacy only added a thick tension that set him on edge. But he was convinced that if it weren't for the ex-Mrs. Spencer peeling back the plaster he'd used to wall his proclivities in with, their lip-lock never would have happened in the first place.  Had he not been feeling vulnerable, his veneer never would have cracked and Spencer wouldn't have been able to take advantage of his susceptible state. He was telling himself that, too - another lie he kept trying to swallow.

Carlton dropped his head in his hands, glad that he alone was privy to his thoughts, that lip-lock stuck in his mind.

_Dammit. I shouldn't be thinking like that. He's a pest and a pain in my ass._

But his lips were softer than Carlton had imagined, and he was startled to find that he imagined them often.

That he, in fact, thought of Spencer almost all the time.

He remembered the whisper of stubble against his jaw as their tongues had intertwined.

The warm breath of the other man as he pulled away, eyes glazed and unfocused, drunk on passion.

He remembered his heart beating in time, dancing against Spencer's as they pressed against one another.

Every time he closed his eyes.

Every moment he had to himself.

Every time the psychic's name was said in passing…

He remembered.

_For fucks sake._

Ignoring the chemistry between them was going to be impossible.

 

 


	3. Feel It Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 3: Daredevils!  
> ** The accompanying song is Feel It Again by Honeymoon Suite
> 
> Carlton recovers from his disaster of a date and the abject embarrassment of assuming a hooker was one of O'Hara's friends, questioning why he has such little luck with women and realizing the effect Spencer and their shared kiss has had on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

 

* * *

 

Carlton couldn't help but think the dead clown story was funny.

He knew it might not be everyone's cup of tea, but  _he_  found the situation hilarious, so thereby intended to keep telling the tale regardless of how many people he might offend by doing so. He would never find a person with a macabre sense of humor to match his own if he worried about chasing off dates he wasn't compatible with, anyhow, so he wasn't about to stifle himself simply to make them feel better. Besides, as he was often reminded by both colleague and criminal, his personality was off-putting enough that a silly little story about a dumb clown-clad crook was the least of his worries.

 _Honestly,_ he thought,  _if she didn't want me drawing pictures, then she shouldn't have chosen a place with crayons on the table._

It was no wonder his date had failed.

Carlton knew he should have seen the signs beforehand – they were there, in flashing neon, after all - and his inability to notice them made him feel like a failure. The worst had been her choice of where to dine, which should have screamed at him to run, far and fast. Disregarding the many great dining experiences to be had in Santa Barbara proper, she had, for some reason, requested to be taken to a chain restaurant instead - the words 'culinary' and 'cuisine' clearly not in her vocabulary.

He had laughed, thinking it was a joke they could share, but - to his chagrin - it turned out she really liked rubbery food. So, setting himself a new record, he'd actually managed to upset her twice in only a matter of minutes. How Carlton had thought the dead clown story would save the date was beyond him, but he'd at least had a moment of mild amusement at the look of horror on her face before she'd left to the lady's room; an excuse to escape if ever he saw one.

Not bothering to see if she was coming back and far from the first time he'd been abandoned at a table after a date gone wrong, Carlton had decided to pay the bill and leave. If she did return, she could enjoy the rest of the meal herself, his having left everything but the surprisingly scrumptious crab cakes. Those he would take home to pity-eat while he watched his favorite movie, trying his best to forget the evening and the feelings that it brought about.

 _Heartbreak Ridge_  was aptly named, and sometimes he wondered if he, like Highway, should take to reading women's magazines in an attempt to understand the frustrating female mind.

Because O'Hara seemed to be taking lessons on how best to pester him from their pain-in-the-ass psychic consultant, he'd made the mistake of letting it slip to his partner the next day that the date had been a bust, and he wished he'd been able to withstand the incessant onslaught of her questions better. O'Hara's haranguing had gotten the best of him, and Carlton couldn't understand why she was making it a bigger deal that it actually was. She shouldn't have been nosing around in his personal business in the first place. Besides, it wasn't like a bad date made him a bad detective, so what did it matter?

But, even though he did so begrudgingly, Carlton did have to admit to that there was a small part of him - teensy weensy, deep down inside - that was glad that she had. Her nosiness had made him feel like he had a friend on the force, something his lone wolf personality had resisted against for the bulk of his career, and the feeling was nice. Though lasting only as long as his ignorance did, it was also short-lived, both flustering and embarrassing him when he found out she had done the deed upon orders from the Chief.

Carlton wished he'd had this information before he'd made an ass out of himself in front of the younger woman and couldn't believe how off-base he'd been during their stakeout. How  _insanely_  off-base he'd been, assuming the junior detective was hitting on him when she had been sizing him up for someone else - which he should have been grateful for but wasn't. And between that horrible misfire and his having mistaken a hooker for one of her gal pals, he wondered how he'd ever had any luck with women at all. 

What had it been that had caused Victoria to fall for him in the first place?

How the hell could he replicate that feeling with another?

Was it even possible?

The detective wanted (and had every right) to be offended at his boss for ordering such an unprofessional act… but he also had to acknowledge that he needed the assist if he didn't want to end up alone the rest of his life, his prospects wearing particularly thin. Though it made him doubt his skills as both a man and detective - something he was doing far too much of these days – he was glad his inference had been incorrect. O'Hara having a crush on him would have been flattering, but far too weird. Even weirder than actually accepting the help she offered, which, however, was something else entirely.

Though his partner was nice enough not to say it, Carlton knew he wasn't the world's greatest catch. Both his most recent date and the disaster of the one he'd had at the reunion acted as proof of that. He was a half-step away from being divorced, his hair was starting to grey, he was snappish and stuck in his ways, and his firearm was probably his best friend. It didn't matter what his job was or what his 401k meant if he could never get anyone to stick around long enough to talk about them, now did it?

Having found it easier than he'd expected to confide in the woman (even though she had spawned the man currently making his life miserable), he knew he should've talked to Madeleine about these things when he'd had the chance. At the time though, they'd had other, deeper, more pressing things to focus their attentions on and he'd been too distracted diving into those problems to realize that he'd had plenty of others to contend with. As it turned out, Carlton needed far more help managing his adult life than he'd originally thought - one more realization that depressed him, kicking his anxiety into high-gear.

As much as he didn't like it, seeing Dr. Spencer had been enlightening. And while the scared little boy inside of him wished he could go back to burying his head in the sand, the rest of Carlton recognized that he'd begun an important excavation process - one that would steamroll right over him if he wasn't on board with it. She'd brought up feelings he hadn't been prepared for; ideas which made him uncomfortable because he knew that they were true - ones that wouldn't go away just because he wanted them to. Painful though they were, they were necessary to his healing process. But his personal failures made him feel like a fool, and it was in moments like this that her absence affected him, making him wish there'd been a way she could have stayed in Santa Barbara longer.

…even if it meant her son being in the office more often than Carlton wanted.

He couldn't believe how he'd treated Madeleine at first, his attempt at deflection downright rude. But the liberation he'd felt at the ability to trust again was intense enough that he had to continue to try to recreate that connection with another doctor, much as he might rather shoot himself in the face. He had kept it to himself, but he'd quietly begun to look for help after she'd gone, knowing that he couldn't turn back but was incapable of moving forward without some kind of professional help. Outside of renting a hooker - which he'd never  _intentionally_  do - therapy was clearly his best bet. So, though the thought had chafed at him, the way he'd been raised making him think he was weak for reaching out, he put his pride aside and searched.

Shawn's mother had left him recommendations, of course - a list of local psychologists who might be willing to take him on - but he'd blown through most of them without an shred of attachment, making him mourn the bond they had formed. True, he'd given those on her list far less time than he'd afforded her, but none of them had attempted even slightly to relate to him in the way she had. In his books, that meant anything more would be a waste for all parties involved. He just wasn't willing to waste that kind of time, so until he found a person who could help him find himself, it was up to him to figure it out on his own.

Before she'd left, Dr. Spencer had suggested he start analyzing things in a way he wasn't used to - to try considering his actions regarding their correlation to his upbringing and social conditioning rather than doing what he usually did by shoving his feelings into a small, dark place until they suffocated, or suffocated him.  _Apparently_ , allowing himself to feel would allow for identification, the first step in dealing with his many unwanted emotions. No matter how painful it might be, it was a far healthier alternative, she had said, suggesting that those same actions could be responsible for a large portion of his inhibitions, insisting upon his token contention that dissecting them would only result in his pleasantly surprising himself.

He'd taken her advice.  _And_  he  _had_  found himself surprised on more than one occasion. But he was still waiting for one of his epiphanies to be pleasant and wasn't about to start holding his breath.

Sometimes, though, he found that those breakthroughs were thrilling. Like he was unraveling the twisted mystery of his own history - rediscovering the things that made him  _him_.

Other times, he was terrified, cowering in the darkest recesses of his mind as he assessed a part of himself over which he felt he had no control.

Oftentimes, he found himself re-enacting ancient memories, desperate to figure out where he had gone wrong and how he had strayed so far off the path, only to realize the path had never truly been there to begin with.

This time, he sat and considered his last crap-shoot of a date and how he'd at least managed three arrests in one night, the thought making him feel infinitesimally better. If his romantic life was destined to fail, thank god, at least, his career was thriving. It was just a shame his last feeling of success was due to arresting his evening's own paramour.

How pathetic was that?

His partner had shown up at the precinct that night, a few hours after he'd brought the bitchy banana back for booking. O'Hara had said it was to see how he was doing, and he'd smiled a wan smile at that, taking small pleasure in the fact that she knew him well enough to know he hadn't been comfortable heading home to be alone after such an encounter. The reminder of that moment made him realize that regardless of the Chief's misguided request, O'Hara really was more than a partner - she was, in fact, trying to be his friend. He was lucky, he supposed. His last partner - the one before Lucinda - had been an asshole. And the one prior to that had been even worse - an oversharer that put even O'Hara to shame.

The Head Detective wasn't usually one to express his feelings let alone admit to having them, but if he were, she was the one he'd choose to share them with. Carlton remembered being disenchanted with the idea of having to partner with a wet-behind-the-ears rookie recently transferred up from Florida, having assumed he would have to do all of the heavy lifting as well as his official job of training her. Not only had she surprised him by quickly showing her tenacity and a natural wherewithal for the job, she did so with a sense of grace that was rarely found in a place as patriarchally charged as the precinct.

She was also seemingly the only person there capable of actual care. Well, other than McNab, but he didn't quite count. The giant marshmallow of a man was a good cop, yes, but he was too soft for Carlton's liking and he couldn't ever see him becoming a confidante. Juliet, on the other hand... well, she kept surprising him.

Setting her bag on his desk and straightening her dress as she sat, O'Hara had told him she'd come from dropping off the drunken and melodramatic duo of Spencer and Guster at their office; the former having caused some trouble when he'd insisted they stop by with a congratulatory cookie for Carlton because, according to the psychic, "bagging three big ones in a single night deserves Butter Nut Crunch". He'd also said he had wanted to make Carlton smile, super-sorry that he had not-quite-intentionally ruined the detective's chance at romance. Whatever that meant.

Startled, the statement confused Carlton. Especially the not-quite-intentionally part. His breath catching in his throat as he waited for O'Hara to inquire as to what it could have meant, he sighed in relief when she skipped right past it to continue her story.

Thankfully, Carlton had thought as she informed him of what else he had missed, all of Santa Barbara's bakeries had been closed by the time the group left the dance, neither Spencer's partner nor his own willing to drive to L.A. at one in the morning no matter how much pleading or begging had been involved. And begging and pleading Spencer had apparently done in spades.

The psychic had whined at that proclamation - no not an answer he took well, especially when plastered - and had changed tactics and, claiming that his inability to retrieve the yummiest of snacks made him feel like he was letting the Head Detective down, tried to trick them into robbing a closed Dunkin' Donuts instead. Kicking her heels off and reclining in her chair, O'Hara had informed Carlton of this with a grin. It had taken nearly twenty minutes of convincing, coddling and collusion between she and Guster, she'd said, before they'd been able to pour the psychic into the car and persuade him to give up his quest, firmly reminding him that as a cop she would lose her job if they went through with his hare-brained scheme.

Once he had realized that Carlton could either have cookies or keep his partner, Spencer had decided that she was of far more import than the baked goods and had allowed himself to be driven home with the promise that Juliet would "give Lassie big smoochies!" when she next saw him. This, of course, the Head Detective would in no way allow. Hearing that, though, he had wondered aloud why they had gotten wasted, the two having been stone-cold sober when he'd departed. It was odd, but O'Hara had simply laughed in response and said something about the traditions of a spiked punch bowl alleviating Spencer's weirdly somber mood.

And when he inquired as to why she had turned into the chaperone instead of joining them? He wasn't entirely surprised by her reply.

"Shawn seemed off," she had said, tucking a strand of wheat-blonde hair behind her ear. "Like something was eating at him, even though he should have been celebrating. I figured it wouldn't hurt to let them have fun, and a mickey full of whiskey in the already spiked punch-bowl was as good a distraction as any. I brought my car and wasn't drinking, so it was no big deal to be the designated and drive them home. I didn't mind. Besides, drunk Shawn is the best kind of cheap entertainment…"

She paused, briefly considering her next words and wrinkling her nose as she spoke.

"Although, he is a little clingy."

A twinkle in her eye, Juliet had smiled, and picturing the many possible problems likely to pop up were he to be in the same space as the sloshed psychic, Carlton just glowered. He could only imagine how handsy the man was while liquored and, having experienced being groped while Spencer was sober, he was glad he had left when he did.

It was odd that the fake had become forlorn after his departure, though.

Odder yet that he'd been so determined to bring back baked goods as penance of some sort.

It was apparently his way of saying… something. Carlton only wished he knew what it meant.

He had noticed that Spencer was like that, though. While he'd never make sense to anyone who tried to decipher his actions, it was clear that he always had a reason for them, nonetheless. Logic being Carlton's best friend - second only to his aforementioned side-arm - Spencer's irritating idiosyncrasies drove him nuts. But he also obviously cared about the people he surrounded himself with, which only made him that much harder to hate. And oh, hate Carlton did try.

He missed the days when things were black and white - when the lines between the two of them hadn't been blurred – and more than thankful O'Hara had inadvertently helped him dodge a bullet, he didn't want to think of what other reason Spencer might have had to want to see him that night. The mood he had been at the time hadn't been conducive to that kind of company, and while he had appreciated his partner's unexpected presence, he was so very happy he had somehow managed to avoid the pest.

But even though he hadn't had to see him, the man's reaction was still troubling.

Carlton was finding a lot troubling these days; his pre-conceived notions failing to pan out in ways that profited him, his entire world felt like it was falling apart, the man living an existence he was entirely unaccustomed to. He had even almost managed to fool himself into thinking Spencer had a serious side, the speech the psychic gave about Guster and greatness at the reunion surprising the hell out of him. It was only the man's act of idiocy a week later that had saved Carlton from his unwanted feelings.

He hadn't known what to think when it had happened; in the process of extracting the bad guys from the building, he had overheard sentiment he hadn't known possible spill from Spencer's mouth, freezing him in his tracks and sending his thoughts flying.

It had shocked him, and he, a man not easily taken aback.

The thing was, he had spent so long thinking of Spencer in one light that it was jarring to see him in another. He didn't  _want_  to see him in another; he was already struggling to see him as he was. It was easier when he could simply label him a waste of space and move on with his life. However, as much as he wished he could slip into that old skin, Carlton was stuck thinking otherwise - the pseudo-psychic having started starring in his dreams. And sadly, no longer the fun use-him-for-target-practice kind. It had become impossible to escape him, if not the man himself, thoughts of him. Day or night, Spencer was either in his face or in his brain, and he didn't know how he was supposed to deal.

It was why he was happy to hear the giant man-child had reverted to form a whole six days later, orchestrating something as imbecilic as the "daredevil-off" that had resulted in McNab wiping out on a row of office chairs in his attempt to dive over them. The act was both aggravating and imbecilic enough that it shocked Carlton back to his senses.

It had been just as much McNab's fault as it was Spencer's, of course, and Carlton had shaken his head, curious as to how the man had made it as far as he had in life being so susceptible to stupidity. He was glad the junior officer was okay, of course, not wishing harm in his coworker no matter how dumb he might be, but Vick had let him off lightly in his opinion. The Cheif had given Buzz a stern reprimand, saying that she was letting him learn from his mistake, his limp acting as punishment enough. Carlton disagreed; if he were in charge, _he_  would have ordered a week-long suspension to ensure the point was driven home.

And Spencer, the not so diabolical mastermind? Spencer got away scot-free, McNab refusing to rat him out and O'Hara insisting it was no big deal. It was a big deal to  _Carlton_  though, just more proof that the psychic's charm could change the world if he let it. And Carlton didn't want that power pointed anywhere near his direction, his world already affected by Spencer far too much.

But…

There was something about the psychic that had burrowed its way into his psyche and he had no idea how the hell could he extract it.

Nor how he would be able to gain focus again.

More important was question he tried his best not to ask himself -

Did he want to? DId he  _really_  want to?

Carlton swallowed, the thought crossing his mind more often than he cared for.

Because, the thing was…

Even after everything up to this point, all the guilt and anger and frustration and humiliation.

All the one-upsmanship and mockery and physicality and competition. 

He wasn't sure he did.

And  _that_  thought scared him more than anything.

 

* * *

 


	4. Here I Go Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place at the end of season 3 episode 4: The Greatest Adventure In The History Of Basic Cable  
> ** The accompanying song is Here I Go Again by Whitesnake
> 
> Shawn sips his milkshake while he considers Jack's betrayal and the events of the last few days as he waits for Henry to pick him up, realizing that like his asshole of an uncle, he too, is an adventure seeker, albiet in a very different way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

* * *

 

Having been held at gunpoint by a helicopter – a new experience for the man who'd had many a firearm shoved in his face – Shawn's perspective on life had drastically changed as of late. To his surprise, his best friend seemed willing to die over an $80 Puma, a fact he never would have expected from the fraidy cat. Even more surprising, his uncle was a big fat fucking  _liar_.

He shouldn't have been so shocked, he knew. The signs had been staring him straight in the face for years, and as much as it hurt to admit, his father had hinted at the truth about Jack more times than Shawn could probably count. But that wasn't something he wanted to think about because doing so meant he'd have to acknowledge that he'd turned a blind eye for far too long.

It meant that his interactions with his uncle since god-knows-when were as tainted as Rob Lowe's reputation post sex-tape leak.

It meant that he needed to erase another relationship and the millions of memories attached to it from his mind and from his life.

It was tiring, losing loved ones because they weren't what they said they were.

And yes, he understood the irony in that.

Betrayal always hit Shawn hard. It was tough enough for him to find people to trust that when they did stab him in the back, to him, the pain was quite literal. This time, with the uncle he had hero-worshipped since he was a tyke, he had almost wished he'd been knifed instead. The wound from that would be easier to heal from, anyhow.

It had been inevitable; once Jack had gotten mad about the lack of map, Shawn knew in his heart of hearts that their escapade wasn't going to end well. Even with the gold in hand, he couldn't consider it a success, not with what he had lost in the process. However, instead of facing reality, he had buried his head in the sand, glad Jack had changed his tune and regifted his love upon Shawn proving useful.

It hurt, the knowledge that proving useful was the only way to gain the man's affection. Especially since Shawn had loved his uncle Jack more than words could say.

As a kid, he would have even said that he loved him more than he did his own father. That's what Henry had accused him of after he'd had Jack take his place on 'Career Day', anyhow; Henry arguing that it was an insult to both him and the great profession of policemanship. Jack's gallivanting hardly qualified as a career, he'd said, which furthermore acted as proof that a father – even a fake one – was the last thing his brother should be. It was the biggest slap in the face Shawn could have given him and had earned the elementary school student a tirade and a half, only ending once his mother had returned home and called for a cease and desist.

Henry hadn't talked to him for two days afterwards; two of the best days of his young life.

Jack had smartly disappeared for a while after that, resurfacing a few years later with another wild story and an even wilder adventure - both reasons he had loved the man so dearly.

The opposite of Henry in every way that young Shawn thought mattered, that was why it had been so easy for him to forgive Jack's Houdini act, the young boy looking for a lifeline outside his own home - unaware of the fact that the line he had chosen was just drifting, attached to no one and nothing but his ambition. His uncle was adventurous, humorous, and fun, so nothing else mattered.

Jack was the one who had his back, his easy-breezy attitude fending off Shawn's father as he explained their latest bouts of chicanery or went off on why the cop should lighten up on his young son, something that just infuriated the stick-in-the-mud more. He had been Shawn's hero; proof that you could grow up with an ornery old-before-his-time old man like Henry and still get to live a life full of fun.

So, no matter how much his dear old dad had espoused of Jack's detriments, Shawn had managed to ignore them all until now, too wrapped up in fantasies and fallacies to see the truth had been staring him in the face the whole time. Sadly, he had seen his uncle through eyes clouded with naïveté. But now he knew that Jack had not only been aware of it but had been using it to his advantage, he could never look back. That boy was dead, his idealization of his uncle drowned in a river of tears he refused to cry. The love of his own nephew meaning less to the man than glory, Shawn wasn't comfortable emoting that intensely over a man who turned out to be that big of a bastard. He couldn't believe he was thinking it, but his father had been right all along.

It just wasn't fair.

Twenty years of bonding over the myth of Bouchard circling the drain, the despair over the death of their relationship shook Shawn to the core. He couldn't even begin to understand why the man had abandoned faith in him so quickly, having refused to believe in Shawn like Shawn had believed in Jack year after year. He'd thought their relationship better than that. So much better than that. He'd gotten into fights with his father over his adventures with his uncle time and again, after all, something Jack was well aware of. Yet still, he wrote the psychic off like he was yesterday's news.

It cut. Deeply.

And it was a laceration he knew would never heal.

Their bond was stronger than adamantium, or so Shawn had thought, and it pained him more than a Wolverine claw to the sternum to finally understand how wrong his assumption had been. Instead, it had been fool's gold, and he felt all the more a fool for it.

Okay, so it was true that Shawn had just betrayed his uncle in return. But beyond being well deserved retribution, it had been to save his own skin, something that never would have been necessary had Jack not been a lying scoundrel in the first place. Besides, it wasn't like he was keeping the gold anyway!

Well, not much of it.

 _I guess love blinds even the most perceptive son of a bitch_ , he mused, staring at the circles he made as he stirred his thick Red Robin's milkshake.  _Well, jokes on you. No treasure for Uncle Jackie._

Shawn took a sip, considering the day's events.

It wasn't just that Jack had been eager to betray him that he found irksome. It was that his uncle had been more than happy to overlook his experience as a psychic detective. Had completely ignored his prior successes with a flippant comment and flip of the hand. Neither Shawn's thirty-odd official solved cases nor his scores of unofficial ones were relevant to the situation, it had seemed.

That's what was the biggest punch to the gut.

It was like in a single breath, his uncle had erased all his hard work.

Had invalidated the legitimacy of his existence.

Had looked at him the same way his father had done.

Shawn wasn't the joke they thought he was, though, which was why he didn't feel all that bad about proving that he could, in fact, snow the snowman. He just wished he hadn't had to.

 _Strike one more off the list of trusted allies,_  he thought, saddened when he realized his already short list had just gotten smaller.

For a moment - one very short panic inducing moment - it made him wonder if he was the one at fault.

Other than his best not-Bud, Shawn had always found it difficult to find friends – real friends. Sure, he could make acquaintances with the best of them, charming the pants off anyone who so much looked in his direction, but he'd never really been close with anyone  _other_  than Gus. And, to his detriment, he'd been notoriously jealous when his associate's attention had drifted elsewhere, even as a child. This not-quite lone wolf mentality was part of the reason he'd had his daredevil phase back in '89 and  _all_  of the reason why he had made the horrible decision to frost his tips in '01, having been separated from the good advice Gus would have given had he been around and desperate for his companionship both times.

Really, lacking attention Gus provided was probably the reason he'd done a whole host of stupid things throughout the years. Had he the patience and the pen-name, he probably could've written a book about it.

Or at least a really amusing list.

The thing was, as friendly as Shawn came across, he had always found it difficult to connect with people.  _Really_  connect with people - in a single glance, he could learn more about them than they wanted to share, and that unnerved the average bear. And sharing that much of himself in return? Fahgeddaboutit.

Between the battery of personality quirks that his father had fostered onto him and the fact that Big Bad Burton Guster had filled his friend quota early on, Shawn had often found himself with a slight disconnect. Struggling to remember how normal people would act and coasting on the bare minimum just to get by. Finding himself easily frustrated by his deficiencies and far too often concluding that, with other people at least, the effort just wasn't worth it.

Once his mother had moved out, Shawn didn't even bother to try anymore. If his existence was an inconvenience to the world, well, he'd thought, the world could just go fuck itself for making him this way. Take him or leave him, it didn't matter - he wasn't going to be bothered by other people's opinions of him any more. They were none of his damn business. And if someone didn't like it? That was their problem.

Shawn sucked harder on his straw, a stuck strawberry giving him grief.

 _Gus would never betray me. Not for any less than a cool half mill., or a sweet new pair of Pumas, anyhow,_ he mused, poking at the concoction in his cup. He was glad he knew where the man's loyalties lie, one of the few things in life he'd never have to worry about.  _And I'm sure Dad would have my back as soon as I learned whatever lesson he thought I needed to learn from whatever debacle I managed to stumble my way into. Though, knowing him, he'd still make me pay for the help somehow._

Shawn rolled his eyes at the thought and sighed.

_As long as I don't have to build another damn doghouse…_

Really though, he wondered, who else did he have that he could trust?

He knew Chief Vick kept him on because she couldn't afford not to, the cost of his retainer far less than that of the face she would lose were his many cases left unsolved. Not to say that Lassie and his police posse  _couldn't_  have solved them –  _well, not the one with the dinosaur, that's for sure –_ but they certainly wouldn't have done so as quickly, or with as much panache. So, providing he kept his numbers up and the laws he broke in the process to himself, he knew that he could generally count on the Police Chief to have his back.

She was a smart one, that Chief Vick, and he loved the fact that she knew how and when to play dumb just as well as he did.

Of course, there was also Juliet. When she wasn't acting the sexy boss-lady like she had done today, Shawn sometimes wondered if Jules was hiding a double life as the treasurer of the Shawn Spencer Fan Club. (And if that wasn't a thing he needed to tell Gus to get on that, lickety-split!)

Though the flirting between them came naturally to both, Shawn wouldn't have been surprised to find that O'Hara was completely unaware that she did it as often as she did. Badass though she was, Jules had that sweet, innocent vibe about her, and he always appreciated the fact that she not only had his back but was usually pretty vocal about it. Insisting to her partner that he _wasn't_ full of shit, Jules was always the first to call when they needed his help, and her belief in him made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, if only slightly guilty over all the lies. If he hadn't been afraid he'd get shin-kicked for it, Shawn would consider calling her his number one fan. But Jules wore pointy-toed shoes and was a total powerhouse, so instead he just tried to show his gratitude where he could.

And then there was Lassie.

_Oh, Lassie..._

Shawn paused, a twinkle in his eye as he wondered if Lassie thought he was Harrison Ford sexy.

Not Harrison Ford  _now_ , obviously - if Lassie thought Shawn looked that old, he needed to get those beautiful blue peepers checked out, STAT.

But maybe a young Harrison Ford, like in Star Wars. Or Blade Runner.

_No – Raiders! Yeah, that's it! I bet he thinks I'm Indiana Jones sexy. Downright smoldering, even._

Lassiter didn't know it, but Shawn had caught him staring during their treasure-hunting, fraud-finding, mercenary-dodging adventure. He'd been overjoyed to see him, expecting the detective to be sporting an irritated face, but had seen a quickly stifled nevertheless lusty look of intrigue in his eyes as he'd pulled in guns-a-blazin' instead.

Crouched behind his cruiser, Lassie's presence saving Shawn's skin, he'd clearly been dying to see if the psychic had done the impossible by finding Bouchard's gold... and catch the bad guys, of course. And the fact that he had? It had made Lassie's eyes widen in both arousal and surprise when he'd found out, the cop unable to hide the greed in his gaze.

Curiouser and curiouser.

_Yeah, he's totally got the hots for me._

And Shawn  _had_  found Bouchard's gold - that was the crazy thing!

After all of Jack's stories and adventures, after his many tall tales... Shawn had never for a second believed that this was the one that would pan out. Not after everything they'd been through. Not with the story being so well-known and the gold so hard to find. So, when he  _did_  find the treasure, Shawn not only forgot to breathe, he forgot that he even knew how.

Time had frozen. For a fraction of a second, his heart stilled in his chest, blood roaring in his ears as he struggled to stay on his feet.

He couldn't believe how scared he was; how exhilarated.

Kind of like when he dared Lassie to kiss him.

 _Exactly_  like when he dared Lassie to kiss him.

Shawn had no idea why he kept doing stupid stuff like that.

 _Was I your first sweet man kiss?_  he chuckled, surprised by how much he wanted it to be true. Hell, he'd give all the gold in his pocket for an ounce of proof he was the first to besmirch the stodgy man with smoochies. It wasn't like Lassiter went around shoving his tongue in other men's mouths often (if ever), after all - but if it  _were_  true, if Shawn _was_ the first man to plunder that particular cavern, it would give the psychic a reason to feel slightly more than special.

It would give him hope.

 _Maybe I should ask him,_ he thought.

_…if I want to get shot._

He wondered why Lassie had taken him up on the dare.

Never in a million years had he thought that Lassiter would do it. The detective's reticence was a large part of why Shawn threw himself at the older man in the first place, his lewd behavior winding the detective up tighter than a two-dollar timepiece. Shawn found incredibly it entertaining to watch - not quite the amazing feat Dutch the Clutch could perform, of course, but something he thought made him a daredevil nonetheless; unleashing Lassie's ire a deliciously terrible thing to behold.

It had been Shawn's favorite form of courting danger for the longest time; ever since he had met the man, as a matter of fact. Hell, half the reason he had opened Psych was to create a legitimate excuse to continue toying with the detective, determined to one day climb the lissome man like he was Mt. Lassiter, if only he could find himself a qualified Sherpa.

With no idea why fucking with the fine Irishman made his adrenaline surge, Shawn loved to chase the feeling, likening it to a drug addiction he'd never wanted nor had. There was just something so pure about the crackle of energy between them whenever Lassie caught the psychic in his sights, his gaze electrifying and always promising something more.

So, Shawn was secretly thrilled when things intensified, the heat between them bordering on palpable as the others remained unaware of the attraction they shared. He recalled being pinned under the cop's piercing blue glare, the fine hairs on his arms rising as he thought of how badly he wanted the feeling of Lassiter's body pressed hard against his own in the moment before it had happened.

The fine hairs on his arms rising  _now._

Because it had  ** _actually_**  happened.

Shawn shivered, the memory washing over him in ways he wished it wouldn't. Not in public, anyhow.

 _What is it about my dearest detective that tickles me so?_  he wondered, blinking as the thought caught him off-guard.  _Wait - why do I even care? Why am I even thinking about this?_

It wasn't like Shawn had given any  _other_  relationship in his life this much consideration, romantic  _or_  platonic. Having learned firsthand from his parents failure that putting too much of yourself into relationships just resulted in getting hurt, he had never allowed himself to get close enough to care. Watching them –  _misunderstanding them_  – had resulted in a sad series of events that had set precedent for a pattern of destructive dating habits and emotional detachment that he'd inadvertently followed throughout his entire adult life. And, taking far too long to get to a point where he was ready, willing, or able to admit that these were problems he not only had but had to fix, he had barely just begun.

W _here has that gotten me?_  he lamented, trying to fight the forlorn feelings creeping their way in. _Sitting alone in a Red Robin's waiting for my daddy to pick me up from my latest adventure._

It had Shawn wondering if he was on the right track. His mother had recently chastised him about cancelling on yet  _another_  first date, after all, as if it weren't her fault and like he wasn't aware of his own romantic encumbrances. He was aware. He was more than aware. He could fill a book with how aware he was of his suckitude in the dating department, sometimes quite literally.

It was just hard (also sometimes quite literally) because it seemed like no matter what he did, he was never able to find what he was looking for. Not that he really knew what that was in the first place. Had he been thinking, he should have tried discussing it with his mother while she'd been there, but he'd been too distracted - first frustrated with his father and then sideswiped by her revelation. So he'd missed his chance, it being a conversation he wasn't really wanting to have over the phone.

When Madeleine revealed that things in her relationship with Henry hadn't happened the way that Shawn had thought they had, it had thrown him for a loop. He didn't know how to process it and he certainly had no idea what it meant to the rest of his life. If he had been stupidly basing his life choices on what had happened between the two of them, didn't that mean that he needed to take this new information into account? Didn't it meant that every choice he had made, every action he had taken up to that point, needed strong reassessment? What it did mean, he knew for sure, was that he had no real-life examples anymore. Not that he should have been looking to either of them for a life pattern to follow, anyhow.

In fact, he probably should have stopped long ago - but since they were the only real option he had, they would have to do.

 _I mean… they have a better relationship now than they did the last few years they were together,_  his questioning conscience piped in, small and uncertain from lack of use.  _Doesn't that mean that there's still something good to get out of every relationship, even if it fails?_

That might be true. Shawn hadn't seen his father act like this in... ever.

_What is failure anyway? Do you really want to be alone forever? Turn into a lonely old man because you're too afraid to experience something real?_

Knowing that Henry was still and always had been head over heels for his mother changed things. Brought his father's pathetic attempts at dating into a new light. Made Shawn comprehend the man's successes and failures a little more. The feelings his father had for his mother ... it was the kind of love that was everlasting. And though Shawn didn't want to admit it, now that he understood it, it was also kind of inspiring. It wouldn't change a thing between the two men, of course – years of therapy wouldn't fix that – but it made him reconsider his approach to romance.

Made him reconsider his approach to life.

 _If you really want to be a daredevil,_ the little voice chirped, a little less little than it had been before. _What better way to push your luck?_ _You're guaranteed to elicit one hell of a reaction, one way or another._

Shawn smiled.

There was that perspective thing again, reworking rough ideas into thoughts he could easily digest.

_Sonofabitch. Am I seriously going to pursue Lassiepants?_

_Really truly? Honest to God? Even if it means I get my pretty face punched in?_

Why, yes.

Yes, he was.

Right after his daddy came to pick him up, of course.


	5. You Give Love A Bad Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 5: Disco Didn't Die, It Was Murdered!  
> ** The accompanying song is You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi
> 
> Carlton has a drink (or three) after a long day of almost exploding, replaying the events that have gotten him here in his head. As he unwinds, thoughts of Spencer keep coming to mind, and he realizes that they will never stop until he nuts up and does something about it.  
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

* * *

Carlton hated to owe O'Hara, but he wasn't about to give into his partner that easily.

Thank God that there was always somebody on the force like McNab, eager for a case, happy to help, and completely unaware that the boring work was being foisted off onto him. Carlton would feel bad about doing so were it not for the fact that he believed all officers who wanted to be junior detectives had to start somewhere; the top not being that place. He had done it, his Head Detective before him, and  _his_  Head Detective before  _him. S_ o really, giving McNab the extra work wasn't a hindrance. He was  _helping._  Besides, why should either he or O'Hara waste their talents on something as tedious as fraudulent permits at a plastics factory when there was an international diamond smuggling ring to be brought down?

Carlton had cracked a bottle as soon as he'd gotten home, even before taking his holster off, and now sat sipping his well-earned drink, leaning against the back of his couch while trying to figure out how in the blue hell he and O'Hara had managed to track the wrong truck. The ice clinked against the patterned glass as he tossed the last of it back, a rogue cube hitting him in the face and causing him to curse as it smashed into the tip of his nose. Of all his fun new lacerations, the small chunk missing from above his left nostril was his least favorite; hurting like hell even without the extra provocation, it was guaranteed to take forever to heal, and he was not a patient man.

 _That's what I get for trying to force things to go my way,_  the cop thought, prodding with a finger to see if he'd split the tip back open.  _I really should've known better._

If only he had realized that before taking over.

Carlton wished he believed in karma; had he, it would have been just the thing to blame for the events that had caused his day to sour so quickly. Really, though, he knew he should be counting his blessings, glad that O'Hara had forgiven him for upchucking in her hair. The last thing he needed to deal with was a partner with a grudge. It had happened before - two partners prior, the oversharer taking his lack of personal engagement personally - and, stressful as it was, if he could avoid that type of drama again, he'd do pretty much anything.

Thank God Juliet was the kind of woman who wouldn't begrudge him for something so inconsequential, disgusting though it may have been.

He'd never forgive Spencer for the god-awful purple paisley shirt he'd been wearing, though. He didn't know  _what_  the man had been thinking, if he'd even bothered to think before getting dressed at all. The consultant looked like he'd been caught in a time-warp and Carlton wished that both it and the '70's inspired, jive-talking porn star voice Spencer had affected were illegal.

(And not just because he wanted to see the man strung up in chains. Which he did, but wasn't something he wanted to think about.)

Thankfully, the threat of a bomb had been enough to shock the psychic back into normalcy – or at least whatever passed for it in Spencer's world - and the pseudo-psychic dropped the schtick quick, imminent death bringing him back to reality.

Carlton sighed in disbelief, having trouble coming to terms with the fact that the wunderkind had solved yet  _another_  of his cases. How Spencer had managed to figure out and finish off what his father had started so many years before was beyond him, and the cop found it frustrating enough to pour himself a second glass as he considered it.

It was astounding how the two Spencers could be so different yet inherently the same – not that the detective would deign to mention it to either, unwilling to bear the brunt of verbal abuse that was bound to come with the suggestion.

 _Like father, like son,_ he thought as he took another sip of his Scotch.  _Although Henry never would have pulled that bone-headed stunt with the bomb..._

Carlton could have killed Spencer in that moment.

As a matter of fact, with less than fifteen seconds to spare, he had sworn that he would do exactly that should they manage to avoid detonation. And survive they had, Spencer clearly having a horseshoe up his ass. The little bastard had gotten lucky yet again, and due to the nearby police presence, had also managed to avoid a good throttling. But only because it would be a blight on the department should their Head Detective be indicted for first-degree murder. So Carlton had been forced to find another way to punish the show-off for the near-death experience he'd inadvertently caused.

It had appeared like magic, almost like a gift from the gods.

When the reporter from earlier in the week had walked in asking for their most frequent consultant, Lassiter couldn't believe the opportunity he'd been handed, and he looked to his partner before responding, raising an eyebrow and gauging her reaction to Spencer's name.

Though she hadn't looked it during the almost-explosion, O'Hara had been mad as hell. More pissed than he'd known possible, Carlton had let her drive back to the precinct, figuring it would help her blow off some steam. Though it had curtailed her anger a tad, he had still been subjected to an earful on the way, the epithets spewing from his partner's mouth something he found more than amusing. But, keeping silent all the while, he'd nodded his head in all the right places while the wound-up woman fumed, uncharacteristically frustrated and half a step away from losing it.

Surprised she even knew half the words she was using, Carlton had stifled a smirk and listened to O'Hara rage, enjoying her tirade as she went off about Shawn's impulsiveness, impetuousness, and outright stupidity, his grin harder to subdue when she asked him exactly how far he'd thought Shawn's head was lodged up his ass. Carlton agreed with everything she'd ranted about, of course, but having been around the block a time or two and aware that anything he said was likely to keep O'Hara riled up longer than he was willing to deal with, he'd also been smart enough to avoid having to answer, simply smiling and nodding where he could.

So, when the writer asked them if they had any insights they were willing to share while awaiting Spencer's arrival, it wasn't that he and his partner had colluded to steal the interview out from under the man, it just so happened that it had happened naturally. O'Hara was still seething, and Carlton would have been a fool to let the opportunity slide, knowing no better way to get retribution than by popping the psychic's inflated ego like a balloon.

He'd seen Shawn's face fall as he rounded the corner, the deflation evident as the younger man took in the scene before him. There'd been a second he'd felt remorse at being able to take Spencer down a peg or two, but his pride had quickly stepped in to push his empathy aside. Knocking Spencer off his high-horse was a thing that Carlton felt was both necessary and a long time coming, so he refused to feel bad for something he believed the fraud had earned.

Besides, on top getting under Shawn's skin for once instead of the other way around, he was glad to see that the act of one-upsmanship seemed to have helped stabilize things between them again.

Excusing the marmoset mix-up, work had been wonderful the last little while; coupled with the fact that he'd had to deal with little in the way of Psych shenanigans, morale was up, and cases were being solved, which seemed to be a thing that boded well. And the few instances in which he  _had_  been forced into dealing with the psychic? Well, their conversations had reverted to the same infantile back and forth they had begun with, which, although still undesired, was closer to Carlton's comfort zone than the alternative had been.

Carlton had had a bit of trepidation attached to every interaction prior to the shift back to normalcy, living with the fear that the psychic would let slip that they'd locked lips. But Spencer hadn't made an outright lewd comment to him in weeks.

It was almost mind-boggling.

Carlton knew he should be enthused, the lack of inconsideration being exactly what he had hoped for, but he'd been too thrown by the lack of lechery to enjoy it, unsure of what it meant or what his next move should be, if any. Instead, it felt like living with the Sword of Damocles over his head – both unsettling and unwanted. In his heart of hearts, Carlton hoped that - though unlikely as a goose shitting gold - the silence meant their encounter had been forgotten. But while he didn't know what its significance was, he did know Spencer, which meant there was no way it was something good.

Without meaning to, Carlton had spent the last few years studying the man, determining that Spencer getting quiet meant that he was thinking -  _really thinking -_  and the SPBD's Head Detective had found those moments were when the psychic was the most dangerous.

Proving time and time again that he had almost no self-control, Shawn drove Carlton batty; self-control being something he prided himself on. His new therapist had even suggested that he was too reticent in certain areas of his life, self-control becoming an excuse to avoid things that brought about discomfort. It was almost like he was too afraid to discover himself, she had said, hitting a little close to home. However, because she was the first of five therapists who didn't pussyfoot around the facts, he was willing to listen to whatever else she might have to say, regardless of how much he might dislike her message.

It would just take a while before her words sunk in, is all.

He had made the first steps with Spencer's mother, true, but since then had been frozen with inaction, unable to process due to thoughts rooted in fear. Because if second base with the department's most annoying advisor was the result of discovering that his sexuality was something other than straight, how could Carlton manage to live life as he had been before?

Or figure out what not doing so would mean for him?

Had he just been projecting onto Spencer because the psychic was an admittedly intelligent, moderately attractive male in close proximity to his libido?

Or was it Spencer himself that made his heart skip a beat?

 _Even if I did want to sleep with a man,_ Carlton began to brood, staring at his Scotch,  _it certainly wouldn't be Shawn 'No Way He's A Psychic' Spencer._

But, save for recently, a particularly charged dynamic had always existed between the pair - and now that it was gone, Carlton found he missed it more than he should.

The detective would never describe himself as a loner, per se, but he did have to admit to being picky about who he found worth spending his time with. And none of the individuals on his pre-approved list were able to recreate the energy that he and Shawn shared. Discovering this forced him to come to terms with the fact that other than the plucky pseudo-psychic, few people in his life ever touched him, all too intimidated to breach the realm of the physical.

Then there was Spencer, who acted as if Carlton's personal space was his own.

As aggravating as he often found the man, Carlton had begun to comprehend how deeply Shawn's touch affected him. It was a sensation that left him wanting more, one that caused exponential confusion. The man was the exact opposite of what he looked for in a partner - or even a friend - and Carlton had trouble understanding what it was that made him want the friction of the fake's fingertips on his skin, logic telling him that it was the last thing he should desire.

He wasn't  _that_  lonely, was he?

It couldn't be. Spencer must have hypnotized him somehow.

Except that Carlton couldn't be hypnotized, a fact he usually wore with pride but now only offered up frustration. Because if it wasn't that, it could only mean one other thing - a thing he didn't want to admit, even to himself.

Carlton was a thinker, an over-thinker even, postulating problems to death and back again. He was also pretty sure that Spencer, on the other hand, never bothered to think outside of the moment he was living in. So how could they possibly be compatible, having such an important difference between them?

 _Maybe that's why he's the self-proclaimed_   _King of First Dates,_ the cop thought, which, in his opinion, wasn't really something to brag about at all.

You could be anybody on a first date, Carlton knew; sometimes nervous, sometimes excited, or sometimes simply trying too hard, rarely did a person wind up being themselves.  _He_  was horrible at first dates, refusing to be anything  _but_  himself, no matter how off-putting some people might find him. His last few dates were the perfect example of that, each leaving quicker and more creatively than the last.

Spencer, on the other hand… well, he could easily imagine Spencer talking himself up, exacerbating already unbelievable tales in order to get some tail. Spencer was a wordsmith extraordinaire, and to his chagrin, Carlton had found himself following along with the psychic's stories on more than one occasion, fully well knowing he was full of crap but still enthralled by the magic coming from his mouth anyhow.

 _Maybe he's bad in the sack,_ he mused, _and that's why he can't get past the first date. Sure, he knows how to smooth-talk his way up a skirt, but I'll bet he can't figure out what to do once he gets there._

No - even to himself he didn't think that was true… especially if he was extrapolating on the kiss they had shared, Shawn's tongue having expertly worked at manipulating him into the mess he'd become.

Much to Carlton's dismay, their single kiss had a visceral effect on him, and though he was doing his damnedest to deny it, had awoken parts of him he thought were dormant.

Kicking his feet up onto the cushions and trying but failing to relax, he wondered what it was that had caused him to snap and do something so out of character.

Spencer had provoked him so many times before that ignoring him should have been effortless, every other phrase out of the man's mouth a proposition. However, when it had happened in the hall at the precinct, it had been more of a request than it had been a taunt - and it wasn't the request itself, but the restrained need in the man's voice that the detective had sensed. Spencer's words were mocking, but want had been written all over his face, somehow superseding Carlton's ingrained sensibilities. So, his self-restraint had been thrown out the window, the general distaste he had for the man ignored the second his skin had started to tingle.

What the hell was it about the man that had him feeling this way?

The Head Detective always considered the 'psychic' a fraud, though he generally overlooked the fact unless he was throwing it in Spencer's face, the game between them having gone on so long that it had morphed from being the elephant in the room into a piece of really ugly old well-worn furniture. So, if it wasn't the obvious irritants at play, what was it then, that drove him insane?

Was it Spencer's blatant refusal to follow rules - that he'd chew his own foot off before he'd bend to societies expectations of him? That he'd somehow managed to avoid the pressure to find his place and stay there like a good little boy, as Carlton himself had been trained to do?

Could it be Shawn's rejection of the labels that the world tried to shackle him with? The idea that nothing and no one could pin him in place?

Or was it that Spencer lived like he had no limitations – like every day was his last and he was determined to experience it as a free man, regardless the cost?

Maybe it was that for a single moment - for the first time in Carlton's life if he were being honest with himself - he had been made to feel the same?

The man was a disease eating away at him, slowly but surely, and Carlton had come to a point where he almost welcomed it. He'd been thinking of his encounter with Spencer at the reunion for weeks now - thinking of their hallway rendezvous even longer - and it didn't matter how religiously he practiced self-castigation; the thoughts just grew stronger, each taking up residence in his head so intently that he wished he could serve his brain an eviction notice.

Carlton's newfound pansexuality had barely been an hour revealed before Spencer had practically dry-humped his way into his lap, making an already hard situation that much harder; Spencer making him feel like he never had. And no matter how much he denied it, Carlton was going to want to experience that again, which was going to cause one hell of a problem.

He wanted the man, he realized. Almost desperately.

But he didn't  _want_  to want the man, the feeling too risky, with too little reward.

The possibility that Spencer had played him for a fool quite likely, the chance of humiliation was too high for Carlton, and he wouldn't put it past the man to be screwing with him as a form of cheap entertainment. Or perhaps Shawn hadn't, and the desire was reciprocal.

What then? Was that not worse?

What was Carlton supposed to do - attempt a relationship with the man he spent half his week wanting to throttle? Or were they supposed to collide in incredibly intense but ultimately meaningless sex?

Could sex with Spencer even  _be_  possible?  _Or_  meaningful?

More importantly, did he want it to be?

The cop blanched at the thought, aroused and terrified as the idea flitted through his mind, startled to find himself slipping towards thoughts of debauchery. He'd spent years avoiding dalliances with devils like Spencer, too afraid of getting hurt to take the risk and dive headfirst into passion. So, what the hell was he doing now?

Attempting to focus, he shook his head, not sure which he considered worse _._

His shrink would tell him to talk to the man, a discussion which guaranteed he'd gain some insight, though the idea of doing so made him sick to his stomach. Carlton would rather shoot himself in the face then talk to Spencer about  _feelings_. But, as he continued to consider the situation, the idea of a one-night stand refused to leave his mind, and he found himself pouring another glass of Scotch, surprised to find he had already finished the last.

 _Maybe I should just get it out of my system,_ he thought, a grim smile on his face as he resigned himself to the idea.  _Bang it out and be done with the bastard, once and for all._

Carlton looked at his glass intently and sighed, worried about what Shawn would say were he to bring it up - not a happy thought.

 _I guess I'll just have to keep his mouth too busy to talk,_ he considered, slamming the contents of his tumbler in a single swallow.

He was Head Detective for a reason after all, and he chuckled, finally realizing that.

And he was a Head Detective who had just the plan.

A man with a plan for action.


End file.
